


Chamomile and Vanilla

by AJsregrettabledecisions



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Falling In Love, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:48:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24684085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJsregrettabledecisions/pseuds/AJsregrettabledecisions
Summary: Jaskier and Yennefer keep running into each other. It starts as boiled-over emotion - anger and hate and hurt. It changes, over time.-Inspired by a post by tarradiddled on tumblr:Yennefer using the excuse “it looks far better on me” when she steals Jaskier’s doublets for herself, when, really, she likes that they smell of Jaskier’s chamomile and vanilla scent.Not quite exactly that, but I think its close!
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 8
Kudos: 67





	Chamomile and Vanilla

**Author's Note:**

> I recently made a tumblr (wow its a wild ride, I don't know if I'm doing any of it right) and I found that text post by taradiddled and it lit a fire in me.  
> So now there is this.  
> Unbeta'd! And unlike the other work I've done, this hasn't been sitting in my documents for months, having been re-read and edited four hundred thousand times. I have written it, proof read it once, and here it is. It's a little rough as such. Please let me know of any typos or nonsense sentences!  
> Enjoy!

Really, after years of spitting insults at each other and subtly taking turns in staking their claim over Geralt, it was a surprise the hate sex hadn’t started sooner. Perhaps it was simply the fact that Yennefer _could_ have Geralt, and thus had no need for Jaskier, that had prevented it from happening earlier.

As it was, a month post-mountain, they had crossed paths. It was nothing remarkable – Jaskier was playing at a feast on the request of one of Aedirn’s upper nobility. Yennefer was there doing… Jaskier didn’t really know what, and he figured he probably didn’t want to.

A traded look, a snappy greeting, a subtle insult escalated into blatant disdain. Their usual shtick. Yennefer had said _and I suppose your witcher mutt is here too_ and Jaskier had bitterly remarked _he’s not my anything anymore_. An arched eyebrow, a petulant scowl, and the brutal, scathing remarks continued, even as the party ended and they retired to Yennefer’s parlour. They continued on as she poured them both wine; as he shed his doublet and she swapped her elegant evening gown for a night robe with the shrug of a shoulder and a whisper of magic.

Really, the barbs didn’t stop – not even when his face was buried between her legs, fingers and tongue coaxing out quiet gasps, or when she was riding him with her nails raking lines down his chest that made him hiss. He’d left when they were done, that time. Both sore and bitter and just as angry as they were when they started.

The next time they saw each other, Jaskier was drunk and miserable and crying in a field of fucking buttercups, loathing the flowers more than he could remember ever doing. And she was there, picking fucking celandine from the same damn field. Their own sore luck, they’d both commented. To of found each other _twice_ now.

That time, Yennefer had snorted and said she wasn’t drunk enough to deal with him. If he was honest with himself, he probably should have just walked away – left her to her herb work, and gotten out when he could. Instead, he offered her his bottle. She’d sipped it, spat it back out – on his _boots_ – and magically traded it for something far stronger and far nicer.

That first time had been spent attempting to one-up each other with their individual sexual prowess. This wasn’t – they were both shitfaced and in a field of flowers and neither of them could care to make it anything more than a stupid, drunken romp.

After, half dozing with their limbs entangled, trading the ever-refilling bottle backwards and forwards, Yennefer had stumbled to her feet. She grabbed the first thing she could reach – his doublet – and stumbled off into the trees for a piss. He was asleep before she was back, and woke up itchy and nauseous in a field of fucking buttercups, his doublet slung over his lap as a flimsy shield for his modesty.

The third time, in a private hallway in a noble’s manor, they were back to angry, spitting remarks, neither of them wanting to know how or why they kept meeting. They didn’t fuck that time, which Jaskier couldn’t care less about, but they did trade bites disguised as kisses in until the disapproving steward had come to ask Jaskier to commence playing.

The fourth time, Yennefer had cast _something_ on him, making his skin tingle and his blood fizz. He’d cursed her by every god he knew and demanded she undid whatever it was. She’d snarled right back, explaining she was seeing if there was something tying them together because there was no reason for them to of met four times in less than a year. The spell was pointless. There wasn’t a curse, or the strings of damnable Destiny. Just sheer bad luck.

Bad luck that had led to him fucking her against a wall in the parlour of their latest mutual noble friend, her practically pulling his hair out as he heaved her up by her thighs and rutted into her. They’d spat insults and curses the whole time, and like the first, he had left as soon as it was over.

The fifth time they ran into each other, Jaskier was playing the crowd as much as he was his lute. A wink at the lady there, a leer at the gentleman here – he would have found at least one person to keep his mind and body busy that night. Two, at once, if he played his cards right. But then she had been there, sipping wine from an ornate goblet, lips as red as her drink. He’d excused himself, going over to her. A mage seeking him out was never a good sign. Yennefer of Vengerburg wanting to see him? The end times, surely.

Jaskier’s vaguely less-depressed mood had soured as soon as she opened her pretty little lips, asking _where’s Geralt_. His _get fucked_ was not his greatest work by way of come back, sure, but you could argue it was almost oracular. Haltingly, stilting, over plenty of her quality wine, he had managed to spit out what had happened. She’d frowned, rolled her eyes, and pulled him upstairs into a bed far nicer than the ones that actually belonged to the inn. When she’d gone down for food, she tugged on her outer dress, sans any of the petticoats and undergarments, slinging his doublet over her shoulders to keep herself warm. She didn't pity him. He supposed he should be thankful for that.

Their next romp came when Jaskier was called home for something he couldn’t avoid. He was still Viscount de Lettenhove, no matter how much he tried to change it. She had waltzed into the ballroom of the Pankratz manor, head held high and proud, usual smirk in place. It had dropped as soon as her date had escorted her to him; turning into a disdainful snarl. _Bard_ she had greeted, only for her date to say _Bard? Not quite, my Lady. This is the Viscount_.

The sex that night was as aggressive and hateful as their first time together. Yennefer clearly didn’t like being left out of the loop. The next morning, after another round, the anger didn’t stop her from answering the knock of Jaskier’s steward in nothing but his doublet.

Some months passed between that encounter and the next. For a time Jaskier had started to think that was it – whatever was meant to come of them crossing paths must have, since he hadn’t seen or heard of her for months. But no, that was not to be. When he saw her next, she was tense and jumpy, like a cat in a cage, barely able to emote beyond an impressive scowl.

Frowning wasn’t a good look on her. She was much nicer with a smile, even if it was just her usual haughty smirks. Jaskier wondered when he started to care. She wouldn’t talk about what was wrong – of course not, Yennefer of Vengerburg didn’t need to _talk_ about things. How familiar that was. But at the very least she accepted a fuck, and he found himself trying to make it as good for her as he could. When she left the bed for her desk and the piles of magically sealed envelopes upon it, wearing her trousers and his doublet, he let her.

Later, weeks or months, he hadn’t been counting, she had heaved him up from his pile of misery outside an inn. He was useless and unwanted and pitiful and deserving of the scorn and derision he knew she would have for him, as so many had for him. And yet – she helped him. Empty bottles banished, she had half-carried, half-magicked him into his room, dumping him on the bed with a huff. She left something for the hangover, and didn’t stay. This time Jaskier was grateful.

When they next met, over a year later, Yennefer had smiled at him. Not a haughty smirk or a victorious grin or a seductive, playful twist of her plush lips. A genuine, small yet warm smile. _You look better_ , she had commented. _You look happier_ , he had replied. They were both right, and both content to accept that. It was a welcome change to their prior need to oppose one another – especially so when he was plucking at his lute and Yennefer said, entirely honestly, _it’s nice_.

Perhaps it was healing hands of time, or perhaps just a better understanding of each other. Regardless, things had shifted between them. That time had been… softer. Still hard and ever so slightly rough, but the insults were less biting, and the barbs less sharp. Like they were giving lip service to their history, teasing rather than the intent to hurt truly being there. When she had stepped out for who knows what, she had worn his doublet. When her current noble’s steward found him, he was chased out, forcing him to abandon his doublet. Jaskier found that he didn’t mind.

After that, they kept running into each other. Sometimes by whatever luck, and sometimes intentionally. Each time seemed slightly less bitter; anger leeched away by time and pleasure. Looking back, Jaskier could see the progression they had made, and how they had ended up here – no longer scornful rivals, having instead built for themselves something sweet and soft and loving.

Jaskier was sprawled in her bed, stretching languidly as he shook the last vestiges of sleep. Yen was at her desk, scribbling away a note for someone or other. She’d woken early, kissing the corner of his mouth when he mumbled incoherently at her, leaving him to wake in his own time. Now, he turned to face her properly, eyes lingering on what she was doing. Watching her work was always amazing to him – delicate, soft hands, wielding quills and knives and magic as needed, elegant and powerful. He would write a song for the wonder of her touch, if she would let him.

Yen was in the trousers he had tugged off her some hours before, with his doublet on around her. It hung open, showing a tantalising curve of her soft breasts, shifting and ruffling over them as she moved. It was something Yen did often, these days – pinching Jaskier’s doublets and wearing them about as if they were her own.

“Thieving my clothing again, Yen?” he murmured, swinging his legs off the bed to rise.

“I wear it better,” she smirked, as she always did when he commented on her habit. Jaskier snorted, rolling his eyes at her. He resolutely ignored her swat to his rear as he came to stand beside her – truly, he was the paragon of maturity in this relationship.

“Sure you do,” he laughed, humming a few bars as he tucked himself over her shoulder, glancing down at the mire of papers on her desk. It was nice to tease with words and touch – to run his fingers down the opening of his doublet even as he chastely kissed Yen’s cheek. They had long since moved on from bitter barbs and angry touches, and Jaskier revelled in it; in the quiet, content moments they shared solely with each other.

“We should get you your own. A whole set, including one to match your eyes.”

Under him, Yen tensed ever so slightly, quill stilling.

“Yen?” he queried, shifting aside so he could look at her properly.

“I don’t want my own,” she stated, face carefully neutral.

“No?” Jaskier replied, torn between smiling at the ever so slightly petulant tone, or frowning at her absence of expression.

“No.”

“Why not?” he pushed, fingers gently tilting her face so he could look at her properly. Yen’s eyes gave her away – she was torn about something, but Jaskier couldn’t tell what. It was entirely her prerogative as to whether or not she would share. She turned to glare down at her letters once more, and Jaskier let it be. Instead, he gently combed his fingers through her hair, content to wait to see if she was willing to talk or not. Experience told him not to push further.

Sure enough, that night, they fell back into bed together, warm touches and wine-sweet kisses. Firm and a little rough, just how they liked it; pressing close after. Yen’s head was on his chest, ear pressed to his heart. Jaskier’s hand traced patterns idly on her back, wrapped up in the feel of her against him.

“They smell nice,” she quietly stated, murmuring the words into his skin.

“What do?”

“Your doublets. They smell like you.”

Jaskier smiled, tugging her ever so slightly closer.

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly don't know how this happened, given I am trying really, really hard and failing very, very badly at liking show Yennefer. There's just something about her that I struggle with? So I really don't ship Yen much and have read only a few fics where she has a relationship role. Sometimes though, these things just happen. Ah well, I think I got an okay grasp of her in this, and I like how they ended up here.
> 
> Please leave a comment or kudo if you've enjoyed!


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